Thrice
by quibbler149
Summary: Chuck Bass could count on one hand the number of times he'd ever cried in his life.


_Disclaimer: __Don't own._

**Title: **Thrice

**Author: **quibbler149

**Summary:** Chuck Bass could count on one hand the number of times he'd ever cried in his life.

**Characters: **Chuck B.

(o) - O - (o)

"There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long as the other in the year's course. Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word 'happy' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness."

**-Carl Jung**

(o) - O - (o)

Chuck Bass could count on one hand the number of times he'd ever cried in his life. He'd been told that he was born a solemn baby, silent and stony after a difficult labor. He hadn't cried. The nurses thought him dead and had to beat him to rouse him. It was fitting, really, that he was brought to life through the suffering of his mother.

The first time he'd cried was when he was three. He had a hazy memory, sometimes splotched with confusion and forgetfulness, but distinctly clear in other times. This was a clear memory: his father had come home on his birthday. He'd been so excited, little Charles, in his fire-engine pajamas, clutching the banisters, waiting for Daddy. But the first thing Bart did when he got home was lock himself in his study with a crate of whiskey.

"Daddy!" he'd screamed, pounding on the heavy, oak door, "Daddy!" He sat, sprawled on the rich Persian carpet, sobbing at the door for maybe five or even ten minutes. Time passed slowly at his misery. Finally the door opened. Bart loomed above him, cheeks tinged red with drinking. He snatched at Chuck, hauled him up and glared. "Be quiet, boy. Do you know what today is? Today is the day I honor Evelyn. Do not ruin my last memories of her."

He was still, shivering in his pajamas, searching his father's face. And when Bart shut the door again, he spat out, "Crying is for weaklings."

The second time Chuck cried was after a sweaty lay. Beside him hunched a pile of blonde hair and smudged mascara. "Please, Little J, it's not like I forced you. Get your shit together." The anguish from his rejection had steeled his heart, cut through the dregs of his humanity. He felt no pity for Jenny Humphrey - he hardly had enough left for himself.

"Chuck? Chuck, are you here?" It couldn't be. It was. There was her sweet bell of a voice, twinkling through the corridors, searching for him. She was like the sunshine that melted his winter, faded away his apathy. With a rush, his love welled up and he barked a command for Jenny to stay put before striding out to meet the love of his life. Surely this was redemption. Surely he was saved.

And it was perfect. Everything was going to be put right again. For a moment he laughed, reveled in the future; their future. But then Dan Humphrey had to punch him, beat him like those nurses did to revive him, shatter his illusions. Why did Blair have to be so smart? Why was she so fast? Why did she run before he even had enough chance to explain? But there was really no explanation.

Chuck Bass lay on his bed that night, chilled to the bone, feeling - too clearly - the emptiness that gnawed at him. He stretched out his hands on the silken sheets, felt the void that engulfed him.

And he wept.

Life could really screw you over. One moment you were in the clear, and the next you were in the shitter. Years pass like days while days pass like years. Somewhere among the endless haze, things were broken and made whole again.

The third time he cried was in a hospital, sitting on a hideous orange chair, smelling the chloroform. He'd been waiting, pacing and then sitting down. Serena soothed him, "Chuck, you have to calm down. Blair will be fine." When a scream rippled through the doors, Chuck tensed and stood up. A nurse bustled through and smiled at him. "You may come in now, Mr. Bass."

He hardly needed telling twice. There was Blair, looking tired and sweaty, a fragile beauty smothered in white sheets. "I hate you, Bass," she smiled. "I love you too," he replied. The nurse stepped up again, handed him a bundle. The bundle wriggled in his arms and two eyes blinked at him. He breathed in the smell of his child and bumped his nose gently against hers. "Audrey." She gurgled back at him.

Then a drop glistened down his cheek and he started. It was a tear, but not one of sadness. And Chuck Bass laughed because he knew he never had to count again. He could afford to take the bitter with the sweet.

(o) - O - (o)

_AN: I love writing about Chuck, he's such a layered character. This was just a short story expressing some of what I've come to discover about him._


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